


command me to be well, amen

by bellamees



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy Blake is a History & Mythology Nerd, Doctor Clarke, Doctor/Patient, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Bellamy, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamees/pseuds/bellamees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is a vision in sheer yellow. The color consumes his eyes, drips out of her fingers like paint, covering his whole body with it, feeling heavy and warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	command me to be well, amen

**Author's Note:**

> posted a thousand years ago on livejournal.

Clarke is a vision in sheer yellow. The color consumes his eyes, drips out of her fingers like paint, covering his whole body with it, feeling heavy and warm. She’s Persephone, dressed in silks, yellow hair, yellow halo, maybe she’s a Holy Spirit, too. His body convulses under her touch, painfully soft, deadly, tender. She undresses him - he’s soaked in sweat. Clarke’s a solar deithy and her touch on his torso burns, he can’t avoid a whimper. “You’ll be fine, Bellamy,” she’s saying, and he’s blinking at her, like her brightness blinds him through the heavy night around them. She’s his Electyrone, all gold and light and sun and mornings. She’s glorious.  
  
“You’re so beautiful—” the words come through his ragged breath. It’s a dying confession, he thinks. Clarke will hum his soul to sleep — like she did with Atom. Maybe she’s Charon, and he doesn’t have coins to offer her. “You’re—”  
  
“Trying to get rid of your fever,” she cuts him, placing a wet cloth on his forehead, pushing his hair away from his face, leaning closer, pushing back. There’s no smile on her face, just worry, a frown, a pale pink blush on her cheeks against her yellowness. His fingers manage to linger on the skin of her wrists, so pale, so pale, tracing her thin purple veins. He wants to protect her hands, her body. “Bellamy—”  
  
“Sleep here,” he pleads, it’s pleading, it’s a prayer.  
  
Clarke stares at him for the longest time, and he stares back at her with worshipping eyes. His mind builds a church around her, elevated and vivid, his tent rebuilding itself to fit his shrine. He loves — he loves _her_. Then she sighs, removing her jacket and boots, letting herself lay down next to him in his improvised bed, over his sheets. Her weight is comforting, silent, warm.  
  
“You should sleep now,” she whispers, hands still assuring the cloth on his forehead is proper cold, that his hair is out of the way, that his body is tucked in, that’s he’s safe. His ribcage fills up with her golden light, exhilarating, suffocatingly beautiful. He turns his body to face her. “I won’t go anywhere.”  
  
“Get under the sheets, you’ll be cold,” he manages to say, avoiding a cough. Clarke shakes her head, mutters her usual “I’ll be fine”, a small smile lighting up her face. He wants to touch her, but he can’t. He won’t. He’ll ignite, he’ll catch on fire, he’ll die. She’s too powerful, she’s too overwhelming, and there’s so much heaviness inside his lungs, what’s it called, there’s so much love. “Hum for me, Clarke.”  
  
There’s a hint of understanding in her eyes — _hum like you did to Atom, hum until I’m gone_ — and her lips open the slightest probably to tell him she won’t let him die, it’s only a fever, he’ll be okay. But Clarke starts humming instead, some distant, long-lost lullaby, one hand on his hair, fingers nested in it, and she hums, hums, he starts drifting, it’s a holy choir, it’s a blessing.  


* * *

  
  
He wakes up at some point of the night, feeling positively better, eyes heavy with the sands of sleep. Clarke’s still there, soundly asleep, now tucked under his sheets, body still in a safe distance from his own. She’s done it again — pulled him back from death. He brushes some strands of hair away from her face, she stirs awake, slowly at first, then bolting up, a hand on his forehead. Bellamy holds her hand there, protecting it, eyes closed, heart heavy. “Your fever is gone for now,” she finally says, voice lighter, flowing like a song. He lets her hand go free. “I should—”  
  
“Stay,” he offers her a smile, one he hopes conveys all his gratefulness for her existence, he hopes she can see, _really_ see. “Stay.”  
  
Clarke looks towards the entry of his tent, how it’s still silent outside, how the world is resting around them, the weight of people’s souls, the woods inhaling the cold air, and it’s gotten so dark he can only she the contours of her face against the haggard lightning. Bellamy doesn’t see churches around her anymore — no shrines, no halos — there’s only her eyelashes and her teeth and her hair and her arms and her flesh. Everything he so fiercely wants to protect. She finally lets herself into bed again and he wants so bad to reach out and touch her, but he can’t. He won’t. _You’ll ignite, you’ll catch on fire, you’ll die_ , he reminds himself. But Clarke isn’t afraid to burn. No — she reaches forward and touches his face, first removing the cloth from his forehead, then tracing the sides of his cheekbones, to the bruises on the left of his lips, to his jawline. Bellamy feels his bones start to bristle.  
  
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she tells him, voice small, controlled, prying her fingers away.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here to fix me,” he responds, voice so low he thinks she can’t hear him. She can, because she smiles, looking away, moving under his sheets. He feels the warmth coming from her body, but Bellamy barely moves. “You should sleep.”  
  
“That’s my line, doctor,” Clarke snorts, but she agrees, nodding lightly. “We should sleep.”  
  
Those you’s becoming we’s again, he notices.  
  
“Night, Clarke.”  
  
“Good-night, Bellamy.”  
  
(They sleep, so close, but never touching. Clarke wakes up three more times to make sure his fever hasn’t come back, pulling the heavier blankets towards him, keeping him warm. Bellamy wakes up four more times to make sure she’s not uncomfortable, pulling the heavier blankets towards her side, keeping her warm.  
  
When Bellamy wakes up again, Clarke’s gone. There’s only sun and heat coming through, like she left pieces of herself scattered all over his tent, pale yellow, faded gold. He smiles.)


End file.
